


Assorted Fluff (and some occasional mild angst)

by sumhowe_sailing



Category: 19th Century CE RPF, Sumfellow, Sumhowe
Genre: Fluff, M/M, idk a lot of things?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-22
Updated: 2017-05-22
Packaged: 2018-11-03 19:56:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 2,934
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10974282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sumhowe_sailing/pseuds/sumhowe_sailing
Summary: Assorted drabbles from prompts on tumblr.Chapter 1: Henry Longfellow / Charles SumnerChapters 2 & 3: Henry Longfellow / Sam WardChapter 4: Sam Howe / Charles SumnerChapter 5: Sam Howe / Lord Byron (a modern au)





	1. Chapter 1

Charles was entranced by the shadows dancing across his dear friend’s face as the fire flickered in the grate. He felt he could watch them forever without getting bored. But when Henry set his book down, Charles pretended to be absorbed in his wine.

“I wish you wouldn’t do that, Charley.”

“Do what?”

“Look away every time I turn to you.”

Charles blanched. Henry eyed him for a moment before adding softly, “I’ve seen the way you look at me when you think I don’t notice.”

“I—I don’t know that you mean.”

“There you go again, turning away from me. Why do you do it? Why not just speak to me?”

“We are speaking.”

“I mean plainly, openly.”

Instead of answering, Charles stood and walked over to the window. He could barely admit to himself that Henry was right, that he had been watching him lovingly, longingly when he thought himself unobserved. With his back to Henry, he tried to compose his features, struggled to find a response that would get him out of this conversation. But then Henry was standing beside him, resting one hand on Charles’ lower back; his sudden nearness was disorienting and that casual touch took his breath away.

“Tell me, Charles,” Henry said gently, “have you really never noticed that I look at you the same way?”

He could not have been more shocked if Henry had slapped him. What could he mean by that? Surely he could not be serious? Charles looked down into his face, searching for any hint of mockery or sarcasm—but that smile, the light in those brilliant eyes, was all sweet earnestness. Still, he could not quite believe. He continued searching Henry’s face until at length Henry asked him to say something.

“I’m afraid I don’t know what to say.”

“Well, I suppose there is a first time for everything.” They both laughed, glad to have the tension eased. Then Henry asked him to come away from the window, to come sit down again, and Charles readily acquiesced. As he sat, Charles mused aloud,

“I do not think I can believe you; it would make me far too happy.” Henry had not yet returned to his seat, and when he heard this, he turned again to Charles. He looked at him, seeming to consider what to say, before stepping nearer and stooping slightly to kiss him. Charles suddenly felt as if he had had an entire bottle or two of wine—his heart soared, his head was spinning, and there was a peculiar feeling in his stomach he could not describe. When Henry drew away from him, Charles leaned forward, unwilling to stop so soon. But Henry pulled back a little further, just out of reach, and asked,

“Do you believe me now?”

“I think I may need a little more convincing.” Henry grinned, happy to oblige.


	2. Chapter 2

Henry trudged up the stairs, glad to be home at last. It had been a very long day of lectures and going over proof-sheets, and he was very much looking forward to a brief nap. But when he opened the door and found an unexpected visitor, his plans changed drastically.

“Sam?”

“Oh, my dear Victorian, there you are!”

“I…” Henry had been about to say he wasn’t expecting to see him for a few days yet, but then he realized that he had never expected to _see him_ like this at all. He stood there, staring openly at Sam, who was sprawled leisurely across his bed without a stitch of clothing. After a long moment, Sam cocked an eyebrow and smirked at him.

“Is there a reason you’re naked in my bed?” he finally blurted out. Sam’s smirk blossomed into a grin.

“Many reasons, mon cher ami, but only one that I can tell you.” Henry could feel his cheeks burning, and realizing at last how long he had been staring, began to cast around for anything else to look at. But his traitor eyes kept wandering back to Sam, who seemed in no rush to make himself decent.

“Well?” he demanded, “What reason is that?”

“I thought I’d surprise you.”

“You’ve certainly succeeded!”

“Oh dear, no, this is not what I meant,” he laughed, “I thought I’d show up in Boston early and pay you a visit. I met Feltonius on my way here and we took the liberty of waiting in your parlor, but then…well, let’s just say we got a little carried away and you will never have the pleasure of sampling the wine I’d brought for you, as my clothes there have absorbed most of it.”

He pointed to a chair by the window where his clothes, soaked with wine as he said, were laid out.

“How on earth did you manage that?”

“Perhaps the less said on that subject the better.”

“Is Felton still here too, somewhere?” Henry had a brief, terrible image of walking into his library and finding Conny similarly, shamelessly, sprawled on his couch. He shuddered at the thought and was immensely relieved when Sam shook his head and said that while Felton had been spared the worst of it, he had decided to take himself off and pay his visit another day. As he continued looking resolutely at Sam’s sodden clothes, another thought occurred to him.

“Surely you were at least planning on spending the night here?”

“Of course.”

“Then you must have brought a change of clothes,” he turned to glare accusingly, but blushed and looked away again at once, utterly spoiling the effect. Sam laughed again, a little uneasily this time.

“Well, yes, Hyperion, I did, but now we get into the reasons less easily discussed.”

Henry was about to press the matter, insist on an explanation, but thought better of it. He had let Sam follow up such statements before and it had never gone well for them. If previous experience was any indication, this road was one he would much rather not go down. Instead, he opened the door again and said,

“You can put them on now, then, and join me downstairs when you’re fit to be seen.” He made the mistake of looking over his shoulder as he said this, and found the wistful look on Sam’s face more disturbing by far than his nakedness.


	3. Chapter 3

Sam stared at the letter, heart aching as he read the lines again–and again. _If two lovers gaze at the same moon, at the same hour, by appointment, why may not two friends read the same newspaper?_ Two friends. It was like a slap to the face. He knew Henry didn’t mean to wound him with his poetic gratitude, but that did not lessen the sting. How different that sentence might be, how happy it might make him, if only he could change that “two friends” to “we”. He shook the thought away, tucked the letter into a drawer, and went out to find some distraction.

The thoughts would come back, of course. They always did. When he was in his cups, or by himself in the small hours of the night, or reading Henry’s latest letter on his own in the glow of dawn. Sometimes he could not help entertaining the notion of what it would be like to be Henry’s lover - or even just his beloved. He knew the warmth of Henry’s friendship, how much warmer must be his love? But Henry simply wasn’t the same sort of man that Sam was. Henry was flirty and affectionate–tantalizingly so–but that was the limit of it. His heart belonged to that woman who didn’t even realize the worth of what she was turning down.But when he got the letter that begged him to _come soon, Patroclus, and we will fight for your body,_ he could not suppress a swell of hope. Patroclus? Henry knew, with his clear command of language he must know, all the connotations that name held? Had he simply used it for the sake of the parallel, or did he–could he–mean something more by it? Before he could let doubt get the better of him, Sam rushed down to Cambridge.

Henry welcomed him with open arms, beaming and laughing, as always. Sam did his best to return every ounce of carefree enthusiasm, to hide the nerves that were already beginning to gnaw at his confidence in this. They passed the day as they often did, drinking and chatting and walking about town, gossiping about poetry and friends and any pleasant thing they could think of. It was too soon in the visit for Henry to bring up his woes or for Sam to let his occasional melancholy show through. It was too soon to ask just what Henry had meant by that allusion.

Instead, they went out to dine with some friends, and did not find their way back to Henry’s home for several hours. They were already unsteady when they got their, but neither of them wanted to say goodnight just yet, so they opened another bottle of wine. A few glasses later, Sam decided the stifling atmosphere of that room was doing neither of them any favors.

“Say, mon cher, why don’t we go out to get some air?”

“Out? Where could you possibly want to go out to at this hour?”

“Oh, the yard is far enough for me. It’s just so damned hot in here.”

“Well,” Henry laughed at his discomfort, “if it makes you happy.”

They stood, wobbled for a moment, and made their way to the door. Sam fumbled back to grab the latest bottle, still hardly touched, from the table before following Henry out. As his eyes tried to adjust to the sudden darkness, all he saw was Henry, arms outstretched and head thrown back, grinning at the sky. There was a light breeze ruffling his hair, and the sheer joy on his face was so vibrant it practically glowed. Sam couldn’t help thinking how beautiful he was just now.

“What are you grinning at?” He didn’t know when Henry had turned to look at him, or how to answer that. It was still too soon to tell the entire truth.

“I’m just glad to see you so happy.”

“Who wouldn’t be happy in my place?” Henry laughed. “With you here and the night so warm and just look at the stars!” As he said this, he threw his head back again–only this time, he overbalanced himself and fell to the ground. Sam lurched towards him, but misjudged the distance and practically tripped over his friend. Somehow, they both ended up sided by side on the ground, laughing and staring at the stars.

They passed the bottle, which Sam had miraculously managed not to break, back and forth until it was empty. They talked a while longer, until Henry, clearly exhausted, rolled onto his side and curled against Sam. Suddenly the haze of wine evaporated; every detail was sharp, every sensation more acute than he’d have thought possible. Henry’s head was against his shoulder–he could feel his breath on his cheek. Sam turned his head slowly to look at him. Henry’s eyes were closed, and the look of peace on his face felt so warm and familiar to Sam it was like coming home. Some part of him knew that they should go back inside, that he should wake Henry up and help him to bed, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. Not yet. They could stay like this for a little while longer. He didn’t know what tomorrow would bring, or if he would find the courage to broach that subject on this visit at all, but for now, this was enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These two wrote a lot of really adorable, somewhat questionable things to each other - the quotes I picked here are just a couple of my favorites.


	4. Chapter 4

“I think I’m in love with you and I’m terrified.”

It was certainly not what Charles had expected to hear when he had asked the source of his friend’s agitation. Sam Howe—terrified? It simply didn’t happen. Charles had seen him face down murderous mobs, scare slavecatchers out of the city, hell, Sam had even cut off part of his own hand—he wasn’t afraid of anything. And yet, there Sam was, pacing like a madman, white as a sheet, and sweating bullets. For the first time in his memory, Charles was speechless.

“Well say something damn you!”

Instead, Charles stood, crossed the room, and kissed him firmly. Sam struggled for a moment before allowing himself to enjoy the pressure. Charles pulled away far enough to meet Sam’s gaze, and was sad to see that the panic was still very clear in those eyes.

“Charlie I—we can’t do this.”

“There’s no one here but us, we can do as we please.”

“But our careers—my wife—it’s too dangerous.”

“We’ll be careful, no one will know. We’ll be fine.” Seeing that Sam was not convinced, Charles added, “Chev, I have loved you since the day we met. I had never dared to hope you might feel the same, but now…” he leaned in again, this time barely allowing their lips to touch. He felt Sam shudder and hoped it was with joy, not terror.  Sam laid his head upon Charles’s chest, and Charles began stroking his hair. He continued whispering soothing remarks, trying to ease the fear. As they stood there, Charles felt a wave of sorrow rising in his chest; he had pictured these amorous confessions a thousand times, but he had always hoped it would be under happier circumstances.


	5. Chapter 5

Reading through the deluge of texts from his hero / crush, Sam had to wonder if Byron was drunk. [He did not, on the other hand, wonder why he still thought of him as “Byron” instead of “George”-there was a lot you couldn’t explain about him, and the fittingness of calling him by his last name was one such thing]. Why else would he, a senior, the most popular man on campus, be telling Sam, who had only been there two months and was still mostly unknown, a nobody, such intimate secrets?

Did he tell everybody about his latest conquests, or was it because he wasn’t worried about Sam spreading the word? It was easy, he supposed, to assume that telling Sam would be the same as keeping it to himself (while still having the satisfaction of bragging). But it wasn’t fair. True, he’d only hung out with Byron three times, had considered himself lucky to get his phone number, but still. Even though he hadn’t said anything, he felt Byron must know about Sam’s feelings for him. He was probably so used to being on the receiving end of such feelings that he could spot them a mile off; maybe he had even known before Sam did. But that did not make it right to toy with him like this.

After passively reading several texts about how hot some boy in the frat was, Sam could not suppress his jealousy any longer. Either he would have to tell Byron about his feelings (which was unlikely, given their relative situations) and ask him not to share this kind of story any more—or, the better option by far, he would have to steer the conversation to some innocuous subject without mentioning his reasons at all.  At the earliest opportunity, he asked Byron about his poetry seminar, and was relieved by how quickly he dropped his former thread of conversation.

Nearly half an hour later, Sam had almost forgotten the matter entirely. He and Byron had been chatting companionably about poetry and politics, and suddenly he could not help himself. He wanted to see Byron again, in person, not just on screen. He had to ask if Byron would hang out with him again. During a brief lull in their conversation, he took a deep breath, typed his message, and pressed send.

“Hey, wanna bang sometime?”

No sooner had he sent it than he realized the mistake. Frantically, he tried to correct it before it was too late.

“Shit I mean *Hang. Damn autocorrect…”

He waited anxiously for a long moment before he got a response.

“Sure, we can play chess, I’ll bet I can just kiss you in that.” Sam stared, stunned, at this before seeing the follow-up message: “*Kill.” While he was still trying to think of some way to respond to this, Byron sent another text.

“tbh I’ve been wanting to bang with you for a long time.”  Followed quickly by “*hang” Sam did not generally blush, but then, people were not generally so obviously making fun of him. But Byron wasn’t done. “I think we could even get to be boyfriends.” “*best friends lol”

Enough was enough. He had always hated people laughing at him, but the fact that someone he idolized would take advantage of such an obvious mistake so mercilessly was just more than he could stand.

“Fuck you.” He didn’t know what to expect—a fight? A break in their tentative friendship? Not that it would matter to Byron, but Sam would feel it bitterly for a very long time. And then he saw the response.

“I wish you would.” Sam stared, unbelieving. He waited for several minutes for the biting, sarcastic follow-up—but none came. It was just that. “I wish you would.”

“Are you serious?”

Instead of answering directly, Byron sent him his address [as if he didn’t already know]. After a (very) brief moment of indecision, Sam decided that perhaps Byron had had a better motive in telling him those stories after all. He was already out the door before he thought to respond to Byron:

“I’ll be right there.”


End file.
